


Superfluous

by RandomSlasher (Randomslasher)



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomslasher/pseuds/RandomSlasher
Summary: The others are so sweet with each other.Watching them fall in love has been like watching a fairy tale unfold, and Virgil tries to tell himself he’s lucky to even get to witness it–lucky they let him see it happening, because honestly they would have been well within their rights to tell him to fuck off. It’s none of his business.But they don’t. Instead, they let him linger at the edges of their glow, trying his best to absorb the reflected warmth. It’s a little like trying to absorb the warmth from a fireplace on a cold winter night while you’re standing outside in the snow, but that’s okay, too, really, because he’s not built for warmth. He’s not meant for love or affection or kindness, and he’s definitely not meant for those sweet little kisses they share, or those long loving embraces. No one wants to gaze into his eyes or lace their fingers with his. Of course they don’t; he’s Anxiety. His eyes are bloodshot and shadowed with fatigue and his fingers are always cold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Are you still taking angsty Virgil prompts? Can I suggest something you reblogged a while ago, where the others are all in a relationship and have always wanted Virge to join, but he's bad with confrontation so they do it really subtly. Like, way too subtly because he doesn't think that there's anyway that they could want/love him, so when they're being so sweet and lovely he's just getting more and more heartbroken because he wants them so badly, but they don't want him back. ~ @soiguessthisismyusername

The others are so sweet with each other. 

Watching them fall in love has been like watching a fairy tale unfold, and Virgil tries to tell himself he’s lucky to even get to witness it--lucky they let him see it happening, because honestly they would have been well within their rights to tell him to fuck off. It’s none of his business. 

But they don’t. Instead, they let him linger at the edges of their glow, trying his best to absorb the reflected warmth. It’s a little like trying to absorb the warmth from a fireplace on a cold winter night while you’re standing outside in the snow, but that’s okay, too, really, because he’s not built for warmth. He’s not meant for love or affection or kindness, and he’s definitely not meant for those sweet little kisses they share, or those long loving embraces. No one wants to gaze into his eyes or lace their fingers with his. Of course they don’t; he’s Anxiety. His eyes are bloodshot and shadowed with fatigue and his fingers are always cold. 

None of this is news to him, so he’s not sure why it hurts anew every day. It’s probably because he is the way he is. He’s never been a fast learner. His heart is stupid, and it doesn’t seem to understand how foolish a thing ‘hope’ really is. It clings on, building mountains out of molehills, creating elaborate fantasies where the smile someone gives him is actually meant for him and not just the leftover expression they’d been wearing for someone else a moment ago. Fantasies where they laugh at his joke because it’s funny, because they were listening, not just because they’re happy and in love and find it easy to laugh at anything. Fantasies where an accidental brush of someone’s hand against his own is not accidental at all, but a gentle, deliberate touch, meant just for _him_. 

He can’t stop his poor, foolish heart from hoping, but he doesn’t let it get to his head, because his heart may be a pathetic lovesick thing but his head is as rational as it ever was. 

His head assures him that the gentle smiles and kind words and supportive claps to his shoulder are nothing more than kindnesses born of contentment. The others are so pleased with one another, so adorably, helplessly in love with each other, that it’s easy to be generous with touches and affection. It’s a charity built on a surplus of love and care, and he’s the lucky recipient because, well...he’s the only one operating on a deficit in the first place.

The worst part is, the others know it. He sees the occasional glance they send his way, when they think he isn’t looking; sees the sadness in their eyes, the regret. Once or twice one of them has opened their mouth as if to address the issue, but Virgil stops that before it can happen, inventing excuses or changing the subject quickly before they can put words to what’s really happening here.  

Because what’s happening is pity. And he’s terrified if they acknowledge it aloud, it will stop altogether, and the tiny scraps of affection that keep him from complete starvation will cease. 

Maybe it’s low of him, to take those scraps when they’re offered on such terms. But he can’t afford to have scruples. He’s done the ‘outcast in the cold’ thing before, and he is not going back. Not if there’s any way to avoid it. 

So he’ll continue absorbing what little warmth and affection they see fit to send his way, tucking it into his heart like a lovesick teenager so he can pull it out again later. 

And he does. Late at night, when the others have bid him goodnight and disappeared together into one of their respective rooms, giggling and kissing and holding hands, he’ll stand in the hall watching until the door closes behind them. And then he’ll duck into his room, curl up in bed, and examine those little scraps carefully, turning them over in his mind and leeching whatever warmth they can offer. 

It’s usually not much. And once the warmth is gone, cold reality sets in, offering him the truth in place of the fantasy. 

 _Logan smiled at me today,_  he’ll think, calling the other’s face to his mind, recalling how it felt to see those lips quirked up in his direction. And for a few seconds, his heart will quiver in delighted happiness. 

But a few moments later, the rational voice in his mind will speak up: 

 _Logan was smiling at Patton, because he had flour in his hair while he was baking cookies with Roman. You walked in and pointed it out. Logan looked at you because you were talking and that’s what people do when someone talks: they look. He just hadn’t stopped smiling about Patton yet, so it looked like he was smiling at you._  

Or: 

_Roman let me sit on the couch beside him during the movie marathon today. Our legs brushed together and he had his arm around my back._

Which became: 

 _Roman invited you to sit on the couch because Patton had accidentally spilled his soda on your chair and it was still drying and they felt guilty about making you sit there so they made room for you on the couch. His leg was brushing yours because there wasn’t enough room for you, not really, and his arm was resting on the back of the couch because that’s where it always is, not because he wanted to put it around you._  

Or: 

_Patton invited me to bake cookies with him today and he dabbed a bit of dough on my nose then kissed it off._

Which his brain translated: 

_Patton invited you because Roman was on a quest and Logan was helping Thomas with something and you were the last resort. He didn’t bake alone because he hates baking alone and the nose thing was just Patton being silly because that’s what Patton does._

Once he’s reconfigured his little scraps of hope, turned them into the meaningless nothings they really are, he drifts to sleep, trying not to think about the others curled up happy together without him. He tries not to think about how cold it is in his room, no matter how many blankets he piles on. He tries not to imagine how warm it would be, wrapped up in their arms. 

These things are not for him and he knows better than to dream. 

As the months pass, though, it gets harder. Watching their happiness only augments his loneliness and things just keep getting worse, not better. He tries to find new ways to absorb their glow, new tiny scraps to steal, because the more loving they get with each other, the more desperate he becomes. 

But that desperation backfires on him, and the unthinkable happens: he begins, finally, to wear out his welcome. 

He doesn’t realize it right away, and he kicks himself for it, because maybe if he’d seen it coming he could’ve backed off a little--made himself scarce before they started wanting him to do so. 

But his heart, stupid as it is, still clings on to hope. Even though he breaks it every night with cold reason and hard fact, it wakes up ready to take another beating, ever the stupid optimist. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice until it’s nearly too late. 

He’s up late one morning, after a particularly hard night. The previous day’s events had been bewildering, and it had taken him longer than usual to decipher the meaning behind the actions and words of the others, because they’d been so bizarre they’d completely thrown him off balance. 

They’d all been sitting around the living room, and Patton had decided they should all play truth or dare. They’d all kept picking truth, and they’d asked each other things like, “Who has the prettiest eyes?” or “who do you want to kiss right now?” and they’d all kept answering, “Virgil,” and it had been confusing and kind of exciting and he’d laughed and blushed and it had been fun, it felt like flirting, and it tasted like hope, and his heart had been singing. But when he’d gotten back to his room, when he’d really had time to think about it, he’d realized what he should have known: they’d been teasing him, making fun of him a little, and the joke was so obvious he’d missed it--because of course it was a joke, of course it was, or maybe it was simply that they hadn’t wanted to hurt one another’s feelings by choosing between each other, so they’d all chosen the one who was obviously no real option and he’d been too stupid, too stupid stupid _stupid_ to realize they were _kidding_  and God, they must’ve had a good laugh about it later, when they got to bed and kissed and cuddled and talked about just how hopelessly oblivious he really was.

Once he’d figured that out, he’d closed his eyes and cursed himself while silent tears of humiliation had soaked his pillow, and it had taken him a long time to fall asleep. And when he had, his dreams were troubled, filled with the others’ laughter and contempt and disdain. 

When he goes downstairs the next morning and is about to head into the kitchen, however, he pauses and listens, because he’s heard his name and the others don’t know he’s there, they can’t, he’s quiet descending the stairs (force of habit), and while he knows eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves, he can’t help but pause and listen and oh, how he wishes he hadn’t. 

(But that’s not right either. Because if he hadn’t listened, he wouldn’t have known, and he might’ve gone on making things worse and worse until--until who knows what, until maybe the others had to come out and tell him to his _face_ , and he wants to spare all of them that humiliation if he can, so really in the long run it’s a good thing he listens in.)

“--going to do about Virgil,” Roman is saying, and Virgil stops just short of coming around the corner, pausing on the stairs and listening because he can’t help it, he just can’t.   


A sigh, and then Patton’s voice says, “I know. I thought surely he’d figure it out yesterday. We were being pretty obvious, weren’t we?” 

Virgil closes his eyes and a pang of shame washes over him. 

“I would have thought we were,” and that’s Logan. “But I cannot always fathom the way he thinks, if I’m honest.”   


There is a chuckle and that hurts, because Logan has always been the one to say he’s smart, or at least smarter than the others, but then again that was before they all got together. Maybe he’s finally realized he’s wrong, and that Virgil is stupid (stupid stupid _stupid)._

“Apparently we’re going to have to take a more direct approach with him,” Roman says. “I’m sure we can get it through his thick skull eventually.” And the others laugh again, and Virgil cringes, because he doesn’t want that--he really doesn’t. He doesn’t want them to have to trouble themselves when it’s just him being obtuse, and he doesn’t want to have to listen while they sit him down and explain that they really need him to make himself more scarce because they are the ones with the lives together, the ones who are in love, and Virgil is in the way more often than he is anything else. 

So he resolves to make sure they don’t have to. He retreats to his room and he spends the day there and he works out a plan. He writes it down because that’s what Logan would do and maybe seeing it on paper will help get it through his so-called thick skull. 

It’s a list, simple instructions, easy to follow, even for someone like him. 

_1) You’re spending too much time around them and they’re tired of you. Stay in your room more. Don’t bother them so much._

_2) When they say ‘movie night’ or ‘dinner’ they mean ‘date night’ and you’re not a part of that, so make excuses and leave. If they protest it’s because they’re being polite. Just be firm and they’ll probably let it go._

_3) Don’t join the conversation so much. Let them talk to each other. No one needs to hear from you unless it’s about something that directly affects Thomas. Speak when spoken to and keep it brief when you do._

_4) Try not to be such a downer all the time. They’re happy now, so just let them be happy. You can deal with your own stuff on your own. You always did before._

_5) Mostly just stay away from them and take the hint more often, no one likes a third (fourth?) wheel._

He studies it, sort of weirdly proud of how he’s distilled the problem into such a simple, clear format. Logan would probably approve. 

Now it’s just a matter of putting the list into use. 

He starts by avoiding the others for a few days. He hides in his room and when someone comes knocking (Patton, of course it’s Patton, it’s always Patton, he’s just built for sweetness and caring like that) he begs off, saying he hasn’t been feeling too well and wants to rest. 

That works for a couple of days. But then Patton and Logan waylay him with chicken soup and cocoon him in a blanket in front of the TV in the living room and bring him tissues and cough drops and that’s sort of awkward, because he’s not actually sick but he has to play along or get caught out faking it. 

So it’s back to the drawing board for a little while. 

He tries to beg out of movie nights and dinners, but that doesn’t work either, because Patton starts giving him puppy dog eyes and asking him if he doesn’t like his cooking and Roman insists he can pick whatever movie he wants, really, they don’t mind at all, and Virgil simply cannot figure out why they are being so obtuse. He’s literally just trying to do what they want him to do and they’re not letting him do it and it makes no sense. He’s confused and heartsick and he just wants to understand what they want from him. 

One day, it becomes too much. It’s too much frustration, too much pain, too much confusion, and he’s finally had enough. 

They’ve just eaten dinner. He’s trying to duck out, head back to his room before they start in on whatever they’re planning to do for the evening, but they call him back, and Roman laughs at him when he tries to protest and says, “Geez, Virgil, anyone would think you didn’t like us anymore, the way you’ve been acting lately,” and somehow that’s too much, it hits him just wrong, a casually deep cut over an area that’s already bruised, and he finally breaks.  


“Oh, would you just knock it _off_  already?” he snaps.   


Roman looks taken aback. “Knock it off?” he repeats. “What on earth do you mean?” 

“I mean this whole...” Virgil waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the Roman and the other two. “This outreach to the pitiful or whatever the hell you guys are doing. It’s not necessary, okay? You’ve reached out, you’ve done your good deeds, you can let it go now.”   


“What...what are you talking about?” That’s Patton, sweet dear Patton, whose face is a mask of confusion and hurt and Virgil put it there, of course he did, that’s how Virgil is. That’s what Virgil _does_.   


“You don’t want me here,” he says, speaking slowly and clearly but not looking at them anymore because he can’t. He looks down instead. “I heard you the other day and I got that loud and clear. Message received. Even through _my_  thick skull.” He glances at Roman, and feels a pang of cruel satisfaction to see the gobsmacked look on the royal’s face. “I get it. It’s fine. So just...leave it alone, okay?”   


“Virgil,” Logan tries, stepping forward. “I don’t know what you heard, but you’ve got it wrong. Why on earth wouldn’t we want you around?”  


Virgil laughs. It’s not a pleasant sounds. 

“Please,” he says, and his voice drips sarcasm. “Don’t play dumb with me, Logan. You three are stuck in the honeymoon phase that never ends and the last thing you want is a literal dark cloud hanging over your heads all the time.” The anger drains from him abruptly, gone as quickly as it came, a flash flood that washes itself out and leaves him feeling hollow and drained. He sighs and slumps.   


“Look, it’s fine,” he says softly, folding his arms across his chest as if that can somehow protect him from the heartache that’s already building there. “I know you guys were just trying to be polite and include me and everything, but you really don’t have to. In fact, I’d...I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Why not?” Roman manages, voice oddly choked.   


Virgil glances at him and ponders his response. He could be honest, he knows--he could tell them that being there when he’s knows how unwanted he is hurts more than being excluded ever could. He could tell them it’s too cold, standing outside the window and staring in at the fire, and he’d rather seek his own shelter from the storm. He could tell them the truth. 

But the truth will only make them pity him more than they already do. And if they were already willing to do so much, how much more might they try to offer of themselves, if they feel even worse for him? How far will they take it, just to assuage the guilt they feel about finding their own well-deserved happiness with one another? 

No; the truth won’t do. A lie will have to suffice. 

“Why not?” he repeats, and forces some of the old scorn and contempt back into his voice, curling his lip into a sneer. “Because it’s disgusting enough to have to think about all of you together. I don’t want to have to watch it, too.”   


That does it. Roman’s eyes widen and there’s hurt there, clear as day. Virgil can practically _see_  the walls slamming up. And when he glances at the others, Patton’s eyes are wide and watery, and Logan’s are guarded and closed off. 

“Glad I got through to you,” Virgil mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you around, huh?”   


He sinks out of the room before they can reply, and locks himself into his bedroom. He wants to scream; he wants to cry. 

He does neither. 

Instead, he moves over to his desk, slumps into the chair, and picks up his list, tracing the writing with his fingers. 

Then he grabs a pen and angrily scribbles everything out. He replaces it with a single item, written in angry strokes that almost rip the paper: 

_ALIENATE THEM AGAIN. MAKE THEM HATE YOU. THEN THEY’LL BE ABLE TO IGNORE YOU WITHOUT FEELING GUILTY ABOUT IT._

He underlines the words, then slaps the paper onto the desk, shoves himself out of the chair, and flings himself onto the bed. The dramatic gesture makes him feel just a little better. 

But not much. 

He curls around his pillow, burrowing under as many blankets as he can to try to ward off the chill, and eventually falls asleep trying desperately not to cry. 


	2. Chapter 2

No one comes after him. He knows he deserves that, but it still hurts. 

But he’s accomplished what he set out to do, at least. They didn’t come after him, which means they all hate him again, and if they all hate him again, then they won’t feel obligated to include him or offer him those scraps of affection that only made him hungrier in the long run. Better to cut himself off, to let that hunger in his heart shrivel up and die its lonely little death of starvation, than to torture himself by trying to live off of hope so thin and insubstantial it might as well have been air. 

He knows this, in his head. But that doesn’t stop his heart--the stupid old thing--from crying. It doesn’t stop his chest from aching or his eyes from burning and stinging with a near-constant threat of tears. It doesn’t stop his gut from filling with the leaden certainty that it will be back to the lurking in the shadows for him, maybe for good this time, and to hell with trying to fit in or belong or be accepted. That had been his mistake: thinking he could ever truly be those things in the first place. 

 _This_ is where he really belongs: out of everyone’s way. So this is where he will stay, and to hell with how much it hurts him. He isn’t what matters, and his own happiness is not what is really important. 

He stays curled up on his bed for the better part of three days, trying to conserve his energy, but eventually, the empty pangs gnawing in his stomach begin to get the better of him. He will have to leave his room and get something to eat, unless he wants to waste away completely. Tempting as that is, he knows it is not the healthy choice for Thomas, and Virgil will not do anything to hurt Thomas. Not now, not ever. 

He will sneak out tonight, he decides, when the others are asleep. He will wait until they are in bed, and he will go to the kitchen and see what he can take back to his room. It won’t be fresh (he can’t cook and that would be too loud anyway) and it won’t be as good as what Patton makes when he makes dinner for everyone but if he can grab something, a handful of granola bars or a box of crackers or something, that’ll be enough to keep him from starving, and that’s all he needs. 

He waits until eleven o’clock, and figures that’s plenty late, because Patton is an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type and they all usually retire between 9:30 and 10. (He’s noticed, because that is always the time of day where he’s loneliest--or it was, before he cut himself off completely--because it was when they all disappeared into someone’s room and left him alone and he doesn’t sleep, not until much later, not until two or three in the morning, so he’d grown to dread 10pm because it’s the start of the Lonely Hours. Or it was. Now they are all lonely but that’s fine. That’s _fine)._

By his figuring, anyway, eleven o’clock is plenty late to avoid being seen.

And it _should_  have been. 

But it isn’t.

*

The first thing he notices is the smell. 

The moment he steps into the hallway, it hits him: an overwhelmingly savory aroma of _something_  good, something hearty and _delicious_ , maybe a roast or maybe steaks or maybe something else but something _like_  that, and his empty gut curls in on itself and whines pitifully at him, his mouth instantly filling with saliva. 

He swallows and frowns a little, momentarily perplexed. It’s awfully late for someone to be cooking, isn’t it? 

But then he thinks it through and realizes it must just be the smell left from a dinner the other three had consumed earlier, and the thought at once makes him relax and wilt a little. 

A dinner like that smells special, it smells like celebration; a special occasion; something the others wanted to do for themselves. Life is apparently getting on just fine without him; at the least, certainly no one is wasting away pining for him. 

He smirks and shakes off the stupid thought, heading down the stairs and idly wondering if there is any of whatever it is leftover. It smells fantastic, and he won’t need much. Perhaps he can sneak a nibble and they won’t notice? 

But then he rounds the corner and all thoughts cease. 

The lights in the kitchen are dimmed, but there are candles on the table, and they flicker, sending shadows dancing across the walls. There are roses, tall and slim-stemmed and perfect blood red, sitting in an elegant crystal vase in the middle. The table itself has been arranged with three elegant place settings, white china with ornate silver trim, and a bottle of red wine sits cooling in a bucket of ice next to a large covered silver platter. There are a few other smaller covered dishes set around the table, a small dish of butter, and a wicker basket with a white napkin draped over the top that smells like it contains dinner rolls. And now that he’s in the room, Virgil’s fairly certain that he can detect the scent of a blackberry cobbler baking in the oven. 

For a few moments he’s too stunned to really even process what he sees. It makes no sense. The table is set but the chairs are empty. The food appears fresh and warm but none of it has been touched. The plates are clean; the wine glasses are empty and the bottle is full. It looks for all the world like--

It hits him then with crashing force, and his thoughts run in a panicked jumble, tripping over themselves as he stares. 

A date. It’s a date, it’s some kind of--of special occasion date, an anniversary or something, and they’re all set up and ready and here _he_  is, in the way, of course he is, he’s _always_  in the way, and yeah okay it’s a little weird that the table is all set up and none of the others are here, but it’s still obviously not something they’re going to want him to intrude on, and he should just back away now, make his escape before someone sees him and he ruins their plans. He can get something to eat later.

He turns, intending to head back up the stairs, thinking if he drinks more water from his sink he can probably ignore the plaintive growling of his painfully empty stomach for another day, but when he turns there’s a broad chest in his field of vision, blocking his retreat. 

He staggers back, yelping a little, and he would fall except now someone’s behind him, someone has whooshed up from somewhere else in the mindscape and there’s a gentle hand on his back steadying him, and a softly spoken, “Whoa, easy,” in his ears. 

He catches his balance and whirls and it’s Patton, giving him the softest of smiles, the softest smile Virgil has ever seen, but its edges still manage to cut into Virgil’s heart and he drops his eyes quickly as Logan moves up behind Roman and Virgil’s effectively surrounded. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles when no one says anything for a moment, and he keeps his eyes downcast, waiting for Roman and Logan to step out of the way so he can just leave, get out of their way like he knows they must want him to.  


But they don’t. 

“What do you think?” Logan says, nodding at the table when Virgil raises his eyes.   


Virgil glances at it, wondering what Logan wants from him. “It’s...nice,” he says after a second. 

For some reason Virgil’s response makes Roman look disappointed. Well, that makes sense. Roman is probably the one who set this up and Roman is always seeking validation for his work, no matter how irrelevant the person providing it might be. 

“I mean it’s...great,” Virgil tries again, anything to wipe that crestfallen look from Roman’s face. He offers the prince a tight smile. “Really great.” 

“It’s pork loin with raspberry glaze and roasted rosemary new potatoes,” Patton says, and hell if that doesn’t send a near-crippling stab of hunger through Virgil’s gut. “Plus salad, roasted asparagus, rolls with honey butter, and blackberry cobbler for dessert!”   


“Sounds...sounds good,” Virgil mumbles, wondering why Roman and Logan are still not letting him by, and why Patton feels the need to share the menu with him. It’s a special kind of torture, and he can’t help notice several of his favorites on the list, which is salt in the open wound that is his heart right now.  


“Glad you think so,” Roman says softly. “Special occasions should have special meals.”   


Virgil shrugs--it’s not like he would know, he’s never celebrated so much as a birthday--but Roman seems to expect _some_  kind of response. “Well...good,” he says. 

“It _is_  good,” Logan says, stepping forward. “At least...we hope it will be good.”   


“Right.” This is a weird conversation. Virgil’s ready for it to be over. He doesn’t want to stand here any longer and smell the food and listen to them talk about special occasions that don’t include him. Nor does he want to think about the fact that they’re apparently not even mad at him anymore--a fact that should not hurt as much as it does, maybe, but it _does_  hurt, because ‘not mad’ means they don’t care enough about him to even stay upset with him, and oh, indifference is somehow so much colder and lonelier than anger and hate. 

He just wants to escape to his room. He’s not even hungry anymore. The cramping in his gut has turned sour and he’s just tired, so very tired. He just wants to go back to his room and sleep for years. His vision is blurred and his throat is tight and he just wants his bed, he just wants to _sleep_. 

“Virgil?” Roman sounds concerned. “If something is not to your liking, I’m sure I can...” he lifts a hand and wriggles his fingers in demonstration.   


That catches Virgil’s attention, and he lifts his head. “Not to _my_  liking?” Virgil stares at him, bewildered. “Why on earth should it matter if things are to _my_  liking?”   


It’s a genuine question, and a good one, he thinks, all things considered, so Roman really has no right to look as confused as he does. 

“Why does it matter--but of _course_  it matters,” Roman sputters. “It’s for _you_.”   


For several long seconds, Virgil’s brain refuses to process what it’s just heard. It replays the words, looking for nuance, for subtleties, for hidden meanings. There are none. It’s straightforward, what Roman said, and that makes it all the more impossible. 

“For...huh?” Virgil finally manages, after gaping stupidly at him like a fish for longer than he cares to admit.   


Roman’s face softens, eyes going half-lidded and a smile gracing his features. “Oh, Virgil,” he says, shaking his head and reaching up to cup Virgil’s cheek. Virgil flinches, though, and Roman lets his hand fall away, but his smile stays put. In fact, it grows a little. 

Virgil’s heart is beating faster, always ready to grab hope when it dangles in front of him, but caution makes him draw the tattered shards of his self defenses around himself. 

 _Something’s up,_  it warns, in the same cold logical voice that whispers to him every night, tearing down his hopes and fanciful thoughts and keeping him grounded in reality. He hates that voice, but he has to listen to it, because it is the voice that protects him--the only thing that keeps him sane, when his stupid, stupid heart would have him throwing himself at the others in the hope that they might take pity on him and let him into their warmth. 

So he listens to it now, much as it pains him. 

_Something’s up. This is--this is a joke. That’s it. This is your punishment for being such a dick the other day. They’re punishing you by making fun of you. If this were really for you there’d be four spots at the table, not three._

He sighs and lowers his head, forcing a wobbly smile onto his face. “For me,” he says again. “That’s...that’s a good one, Roman. You almost had me.” 

“But we _would_  have you,” Patton says, sliding up behind him and resting his hands at Virgil’s waist, tucking his chin over Virgil’s shoulder. The hold is gentle, light--easily escaped, should Virgil choose, and he almost does, but...but it’s so nice, it’s so _warm_ , with Patton’s body just inches from his back, and it feels good, it feels _so good_ , it’s almost a hug and he can’t, he doesn’t want to draw away, he--  


_Don’t. Don’t fall for this. Don’t!_  The voice is louder now, more insistent, but it’s getting harder to listen to it, because his heart is latching onto this, to every moment of this, and it’s growing stronger, it’s singing, it’s dancing, it _hopes hopes hopes_  and--

“If you’ll have us,” Logan finishes for Patton, and then his hand slips into Virgil’s and squeezes gently and Virgil’s heart might die from happiness.   


“What...what...?” it’s all he can say, and it comes out as a strangled whisper, but they hear it, and glance at each other, and smile at him.   


“Virgil,” Roman says, and he reaches out and cups Virgil’s cheek again and this time Virgil lets him. “It would seem our previous efforts at courtship have failed miserably.”   


“Previous...efforts...?”   


“As evidenced by the fact that you didn’t notice them,” Logan adds dryly, and a startled, bewildered laugh escapes Virgil before he can stop it.   


“I spilled soda in your chair so you’d have to sit with us,” Patton murmurs from where he’s tucked in behind Virgil.   


“And you did,” Roman agrees. “But...”   


“But when your chair was dry you left us again.” Patton sighs forlornly, and Virgil wants to turn and hug him, just to chase away that sadness, but he’s too stunned, and he cannot move.

“So I proposed a group activity, something everyone enjoyed,” Logan says. “Baking is usually met with a favorable response when you do it with Patton, so perhaps if we were all together...”   


“But you didn’t say anything,” Patton continues. “So we decided to try it just you and me, thinking maybe that would make things less intimidating. But you _still_  didn’t say anything. Not even when I kissed cookie dough off your nose.” 

“I...”   


“So _I_ said we should be a bit more obvious about it,” Roman finishes, “by having a good old-fashioned game of truth or dare. Surely you could not miss our intentions if we told them to you directly.” 

“But we were wrong,” Logan says. “And that is _our_  failing, not yours,” he adds, and Virgil swallows, lowering his eyes and wondering at just how much Logan sees, because...because he _is_  feeling stupid now, confused and stupid both, because if they _did_  really mean it this whole time--if his heart had been right all along...  


“We forgot it was _you_ ,” Patton agrees, and Virgil winces because okay, that stings, but Patton shakes his head quickly. Virgil feels it on his shoulder, and the hands that were settled at his waist slide around so the arms are wrapping him in a warm hug from behind, instead. “No, no, darling, shh. I only meant we forgot you are _literally_  Thomas’s Anxiety.” 

“And as such,” Logan continues, “you are prone to...misinterpreting things.”

 _Cognitive distortions_ , Virgil thinks, and he almost laughs, but he is still too stunned.    


“So unless we came right out and told you what we wanted,” Roman agrees, “you were never going to believe it.”   


“So that’s what we’re doing now,” Patton finishes, sounding proud, and giving Virgil a squeeze.   


Virgil stares at them all. And then--abruptly--his vision blurs badly, and their faces become nothing more than wavy smudges of color, and he’s sobbing before he realizes he’s going to, and he finds he cannot stop himself. 

Patton is already holding him, but Logan and Roman move in, and Virgil finds his arms lifting from his sides, wrapping themselves around Logan’s shoulders and hooking under Roman’s arm, as the pair converge and he is being held in a three-way embrace by the beings he treasures, by the ones he’s _loved_  so much for so long, and--and--and they--

“We love you, Virgil,” Roman whispers, finishing Virgil’s thought, the one he couldn’t even dare put in words in his own mind. Roman has tucked Virgil’s head beneath his chin, and he angles it so he can press a kiss to Virgil’s temple before drawing him back in. “We want you with us.” 

“More than anything,” Patton agrees. 

“No,” Logan corrects, but his voice is gentle. “Not more than _anything_. More than anything, we want you _happy_. But if being with us would make you happy...” 

“Then that’s where you belong,” Roman concludes. 

“Because it would make _us_  happy, too,” Patton agrees, voice a little thick. “It would make us so, _so_  happy, kiddo.”   


_Oh._

Virgil clings to them, his heart shouting in joyous victory while the cold uncertain voice of his doubts is finally silenced, fading into the background, leaving him with nothing but warmth and hope and _love_. 

He realizes they are waiting for an answer, and he knows in the same moment  that they will wait as long as it takes. 

And he opens his mouth, not at all sure what he’s going to say--not at all sure how his heart, that stupid thing that never ever gave up hoping for this, is going to give any eloquence to his tongue, now that they are in this critical moment.  

But in the end, it is not his heart that speaks first, but his stomach, which issues a sudden, sullen, comically loud growl that makes them all freeze. It tapers off slowly, and none of them move until it’s done. Once it is, there’s a beat of silence. 

Then--

Patton snickers first. Roman stifles a snort. Logan’s body begins to shake with suppressed chuckles. 

And Virgil is _lost_. 

He laughs. He laughs and laughs, loud, unattractive, genuine brays of mirth and relief and joy. He laughs through the tears that are still streaming down his face. He laughs without worrying if he sounds stupid, or annoying, or too loud. He simply laughs, so hard he thinks he might shatter. 

But the thought no longer scares him. He knows if he does, the others will be there to pick up the pieces and help him put him back together. They have him; they _love_  him. He’s not alone. 

 _Not alone_. 

They hold him, and they are all laughing too, and when the laughter finally tapers off, they have wound themselves into a tight tangle of arms and hands and bodies, of lips pressed to his cheek or the nape of his neck, of shared breath and residual giggles. Virgil doesn’t want to let go. 

But he does. He does, because he knows-- _knows_ \--that this embrace was the first of many more to come. He has just been handed a lifetime supply, and there’s no need to fear the end of this one because there will be more, soon, as many and as often as he likes because...because they’re _his_ , they’re finally, really and truly _his_ , and he’s theirs, and it’s...

It’s perfect. 

He draws away and smiles shyly at them, and they each beam at him in turn, and when he nods and whispers, “I...I’d...really like that, you guys,” he sees their eyes go a little shiny. 

“Good,” Roman murmurs, leaning in and hovering a breath away from Virgil’s lips, waiting for permission. Virgil nods, just the barest fraction of movement, but it’s enough, and Roman’s lips are pressed to his, a sweet kiss that ends with a tiny flick of tongue and leaves him with no doubts as to the meaning of what he has just been offered.   


He draws away, breathless, and wonders if it’s possible for his face to split in two from grinning too wide. Roman is grinning back, and Virgil thinks he might look just as happy. It’s incredible, it’s _impossible_ , but...

But. 

Logan leans in next with an offering of his own, and where Roman’s was soft and full of dreams and romantic promises, Logan’s is grounded, practiced, precise. _Real_. It ends with an extra punctuating little kiss, and the smile that curves Logan’s lips when he draws back makes Virgil’s heart thud harder than ever. 

Patton is last, but Patton does nothing by halves, and he grabs Virgil in his arms, spinning him in a circle and laughing before taking Virgil’s face between his hands and peppering his cheeks, nose, and brow with excited little pecks. He ends on Virgil’s lips, and there his own lips pause, softening, gentling, as his hands continue to cradle Virgil’s head as if it is the most precious thing he has ever held. Virgil melts into his arms and even when the kiss ends, he doesn’t pull away, but hugs Patton hard, body trembling a little. 

“Pat?” he whispers, just for Patton’s ears (the other two have moved off, and he hears, faintly, distantly, the clink of silverware and dishes moving around and Roman and Logan talking quietly.   


“Yeah, buddy?” Patton murmurs back.   


“This is...real?” It’s all he can think to ask. He should ask how they knew he wanted them, how they knew he’d been lying, before, how they knew he’d emerge from his room just now, how they knew when to have the dinner ready, but...  


But none of that matters. He’ll find out later--he’ll ask him, and he’s sure they’ll be willing to share (from Roman’s pleased smile he knows it’s a story the creative side is proud of and Virgil is eager to hear it, but right now it simply doesn’t seem to matter much).

Patton draws back and beams at him. “See for yourself,” he says simply, and Virgil’s eyes flicker to the table--and he _does_  see, now that Roman has removed the large domed lid from the serving platter: there _is_  a fourth place at the table, all set and ready and waiting for him. 

It has been there the whole time.

He smiles and closes his eyes, and if a few more tears slip free, no one notices or minds. 

Patton slips a hand into his, squeezes it gently, then guides him to his place.


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to a few requests, here is an epilogue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter hints at a much more sexual and physical relationship than previous chapters. There is still nothing explicit, but there is mention of kissing and talk of arousal, and it is heavily implied the characters have had sex.

Dinner tastes every bit as wonderful as it smells, but Virgil barely notices. He eats, and it’s delicious, but far better is just being there with the others, sitting at the table and listening to them talk and knowing, _knowing_ , those warm smiles and fond glances really _are_ for him. It nourishes his soul in a way food simply cannot, and his soul, he’s quickly discovering, is  _starving_.

But that’s okay too, because the love it so desperately needs appears to be in endless supply. He’s quickly overflowing with it, ducking his head to wipe at a few stray tears that are leaking free with the sheer volume that’s being offered to him, but no one seems to mind. If anything, the smiles get gentler, and the fond looks turning fonder still. It’s all Virgil can do to hold on under the sheer wonderful weight of the love he now realizes was his for the taking all along.

After dinner, and dessert, Patton stands up and suggests they retire to the living room. Virgil follows them, and Logan laces his fingers with Virgil’s and smiles at him, and Patton guides him to the couch and urges him to sit on the center cushion. There is a bit of a shuffle as Roman waves a hand and the fireplace springs to life, and they all figure out how they fit together. In the end, Virgil is sandwiched between Logan--who has his mouth pressed to the nape of Virgil’s neck, not a kiss, just a press of lips to reassure _yes I’m here--_ and Roman. He is sprawled against Roman’s chest, and Patton is leaning in on the other side, and their heads are tucked in under Roman’s chin so their eyes can meet and their breath mingles between their parted lips. Patton reaches up and tangles his fingers with Virgil’s, kissing each knuckle before resting their hands on Roman’s stomach, and Roman loops an arm around Patton and eases fingers into Virgil’s hair while Logan’s arms wind snug around Virgil’s waist. It’s a bewildering tangle that shouldn’t make sense but is actually _perfect_ , and Virgil is happier than he understands how to be. He could close his eyes and sleep, but he doesn’t, because that would mean missing this, and he’s not ready for that yet. 

Not yet. 

So instead, he snuggles into Roman’s side, nuzzles into his neck, squeezes Patton’s fingers and reaches down with his free hand to cling to Logan’s arm where it is looped around his waist. He wants them, every part of them--wants to be connected physically to them forever and always. He never, ever wants this to end. 

He thinks maybe now it never has to. 

For a time, they are quiet. Dinner had been filled with chatter, but it had been the idle sort--discussions of upcoming plans, video ideas, potential schedule adjustments and conflicts, the kinds of things they normally discussed. It was comforting, because it meant that this _didn’t_  have to change everything (because as badly as he wanted them, there was still a small, terrified part of Virgil that feared _any_  change, even the good kind). It was comforting, because it was normal, just with a layer of something more; something _wonderful_. 

But now, curled up like they are, with Logan’s piercing eyes behind him and Roman’s too-deep ones above him and Patton’s soft and kind and gentle, Virgil feels safe enough to venture the soft question that has been sitting patiently in the back of his mind: 

“How?” 

His voice is so soft he almost can’t hear it himself, but from the way Logan’s arms tighten, lips pursing into a gentle kiss at the back of Virgil’s neck--the way Roman’s fingers begin stroking his hair, and the way Patton’s fingers squeeze his gently--he knows they’ve heard him. 

“How what, darling?” Roman’s voice rumbles in his ear where it’s pressed to the Prince’s chest and ruffles his hair at the same time. Virgil shivers. 

“How did...how did you...know?” 

“That you were lying before?” Logan guesses. 

“No,” Virgil says. Then, “Well...actually, yes, that too, but I meant tonight. The dinner.” 

“Oh, that?” Roman makes a dismissive noise. “It was nothing, really.” 

“It was brilliant,” Patton corrects, leaning up to press a slow, lingering kiss to Roman’s jaw. Watching, Virgil feels a warm curl of something he has no name for, something that exists on the opposite side of jealousy. 

“It was actually quite inspired,” Logan agrees, and Virgil feels his smile against the nape of his neck. That wonderful shivery feeling returns again, stronger this time. 

“We knew you’d avoid us for awhile after...what you said,” Patton murmurs, and Virgil feels something cold sinking into his gut and tightening around his chest. 

“Guys...I...I didn’t...” 

“Shh, love,” Patton interrupts him, drawing their joined hands to his lips again and kissing his fingers. “We know.” 

“We knew ten minutes after it happened,” Logan agrees. 

“You’re not the greatest actor,” Roman adds, and there is gentle teasing in his voice. “Perhaps in future, leave the theatrics to me, hmm?” 

Virgil giggles, and the tightness eases, the ice in his belly melting into warmth once more. “Okay,” he whispers. But, because he can’t _not_ , he adds, “I’m still sorry, though.” 

“Sweetheart, _no._ ” It’s Logan, and the endearment coming from the logical side startles Virgil into lifting his head, twisting to look at him. The firelight flickers off the lenses of Logan’s glasses, but his eyes behind them are dark and intense. “Don’t be. You thought you were doing what was best. You were _wrong_ ,” he adds, arching an eyebrow pointedly at Virgil, who blushes. “But your heart was in the right place.” 

“You...you knew?” Virgil whispers. “You knew why I...?”

“It wasn’t hard to deduce,” Patton agrees, smiling gently. “You were trying to avoid us. You faked being sick--” 

“You knew about that _too_?” 

“--you refused your favorite meals and movies again and again, you hid from us whenever you could--”

“But we saw you watching,” Roman slides in, graceful as a dancer taking over a waltz. “We saw the look in your face at night, when we left you alone in the hallway. We _saw_ you, Virgil. At first, we thought...” 

“Maybe we really _were_  just making you uncomfortable,” Logan picks up the thread of the conversation, and Virgil can’t help but marvel at how in sync they’ve all become. How well they’ve all come to know one another. He feels a sharp stab of longing--a desperate desire to be a _part_  of that. To have that intimacy. To know someone so well that he can literally finish their sentences. 

“But it was pretty obvious you weren’t _uncomfortable_ ,” Patton agrees. “After awhile. It was obvious you wanted what we had. To be a part of it. We tried to give that to you,” he adds, looking distraught for the first time. “We really did, Virge. We should have been more obvious about it, but--” 

“But when you lashed out, it was pretty clear you were trying to cut yourself out of our lives because you thought you’d be doing us a favor,” Logan says. “That you believed we’d been...humoring you, or tolerating you, and that you were doing the noble thing by ensuring we didn’t have to include you anymore.”

Virgil lowers his eyes, ashamed. “I thought I was...in the way,” he agrees, embarrassed. “I thought you felt guilty about leaving me out so you were trying to include me, but...I thought...” 

“You thought you were the proverbial third wheel,” Logan’s voice is gentle, _so_  gentle, and it makes Virgil ache. “We know, love. But you _weren’t_. You _aren’t_.” 

“We wanted you,” Patton whispers. “We _want_  you. So badly, Virgil. We love you _so much_.” 

“I...I love you too,” Virgil whispers, and for a few seconds, there is no sound but the brief exchange of comforting kisses--small, reassuring things that promise _more, later_. 

“So,” Roman concludes after they draw away once more, “once we figured _that_ out, it was just a matter of being ready for you.” 

Virgil looks at him, confused. “Ready for me?” 

“We knew you’d avoid us, at least for a little while,” Roman says, and his voice is low and gentle like Virgil’s never heard it. There’s no veneer of overconfidence, no facade of arrogant cockiness. He’s simply... _Roman,_ somehow more regal and noble than he’s ever been, like a fairy tale prince making declarations of devotion. Virgil thinks, if he weren’t already head over heels in love, he would have fallen for that voice alone. He thinks he might just fall again anyway. 

“We knew you’d want to hide, to lick your wounds, or maybe just to give us the space you thought we wanted. It gave us time to plan.” 

“The dinner was Roman’s idea,” Patton agrees, smiling at Virgil, then up at Roman. “The menu we planned together. We got it ready that first night. And then...” 

“Roman preserved it,” Logan says. 

“Preserved it?” 

“In my realm,” Roman says, “I can...” he wiggles his fingers. “I can control things. Time. I simply preserved the dinner as it was three days ago, freshly prepared and ready to eat. I warped it into my realm and encased it in a...I guess you’d call it a bubble, of sorts. One that bypasses time.”

“You...you can control _time_?” Virgil sits up, staring at Roman, who is now blushing a little. 

“Not...not really. Not like you’re thinking. But here, in the mindscape...in my realm...” 

“He can control time,” Patton concludes, wriggling excitedly and beaming up at Virgil. “Isn’t it _cool_?” 

“That’s not all of it, either,” Logan is smirking at Roman’s blush, pleased to watch someone he loves getting to show off. Virgil feels that wonderful opposite-jealousy emotion again, and he suspects Logan is feeling it too. “We knew we’d have to keep an eye out for you. You had to come out eventually. Patton and I were going to set up a watch--take it in shifts. We didn’t want to rush you, but we didn’t want to risk missing you, either.” 

“But Roman had a better plan,” Patton beams. “He set up a trigger.” 

“A trigger?” 

“That’s...probably the best word, but...” Roman makes a face. “I set up a conditional circumstance that would undo the time bubble. An event under which it would cease to exist and the contents would be restored to their original condition.” 

“And that event,” Logan finishes, “was you opening your door. The moment you did that, day or night, everything would return to normal, and dinner--” 

“Dinner would be ready! _And_ we’d get an alert in our rooms, no matter when it happened, so we could come meet you.” Patton is practically bouncing, beaming between Virgil and Roman. “Isn’t he brilliant?” 

Virgil has been staring at them, awe at Roman’s talent at war with the idea that they would go to so much trouble for _him_. But now, looking down at Roman’s hopeful and slightly anxious face, the _only_  thing he can do is lean forward and press his lips to the Prince’s. 

Roman melts under his touch, sighing softly, and something much warmer surges through Virgil’s body as the prince’s arms wind around his waist and draw him up fully into his lap. The kiss lasts for several long, heated seconds, before Virgil pulls away again. Roman peers up at him, hair tousled (Virgil only now realizes he’s been running his fingers through it while they kissed), his lips swollen and his cheeks flushed and eyes dark. 

“Brilliant,” Virgil agrees, offering the prince a shaking smile. 

Logan clears his throat. “I think,” he murmurs, “that maybe we should...move this to the bedroom?” 

Virgil looks at him, sees the matching flush in his cheeks, his pupils huge and dark with desire. When he looks at Patton, the moral side is biting his lower lip and watching them intently. That emotion, that opposite-jealousy, is swirling in his eyes, mingling with the heat and desire, and it’s there in Logan’s, too. Virgil can’t help but reach out for them, laying his hand against Patton’s cheek, and taking Logan’s hand in his own. 

“Virgil?” Roman murmurs, sliding a hand onto Virgil’s thigh where he sits astride Roman’s lap, and Virgil hears Logan swallow audibly beside him, fingers tightening compulsively. 

Any lingering doubts about whether or not he is wanted vanish, fluttering away with the frantic beat of his heart against his rib cage, with the force of how badly he desires these three souls who have given themselves to him so freely. 

“Bedroom,” he agrees, struggling to his feet and reaching out to pull Roman up after him. Logan and Patton rise, and the three converge on him, lips finding skin and pressing in with soft, sweet kisses that feel like promises. 

They do make it to the bedroom, eventually. And after, as they lay pressed together in a tangle of sweaty limbs, their sound of their panting breaths and lingering little kisses filling the silence of the room, he thinks about the endless cold nights he’d spent huddling under too many blankets trying to imagine how wonderful it would be to be here, held safe in their arms. 

He smiles to himself, tightening his hold on them. He hadn’t even come _close_. 

But he was beginning to learn he didn’t at all mind being wrong.

*

Compersion:  an empathetic state of happiness and joy experienced when another individual experiences happiness and joy. As-yet not officially recognized, the word that describes the opposite-jealousy feeling Virgil had, watching the others loving each other. 


End file.
